


Falling is A Lot Like Flying

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Body Image, Character Death In Dream, Cunnilingus, Dream Sequence with Mycroft as Artemisia I of Caria, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Mystrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Femslash, Genderswap, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Indirect/Non-explicit Reference to Past Self Harm/Abuse, Makeup Sex, Male!Anthea, Misunderstandings, Mycroft Style Drugging and Kidnapping Dub-Con, Suicide in Dream, dildo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is injured in the line of duty. Hurt/comfort Fem!Mystrade. Miscommunication & makeup sex. Rating for final chapter. Please heed tags for potential triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Thanks for coming out.”

“No problem,” said John.

Sherlock grunted.

Lestrade said, “Well, we’ve got Mr. No-hands here on this end of the bridge…and then…”

Sherlock stopped at the body. John followed Lestrade across the bridge.

The scene was suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a car approaching from the opposite side.

“Stop them! Tell them they’re going to have to take a detour…” Lestrade called to the uniformed officers ahead, pointing.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Rather than slow down, the vehicle sped up and rammed through the police barricade.

Lestrade would remember very little after that.

She would not remember the car making contact with her right side, the impact tossing her upwards.

She would not remember the sharp shooting pain of a bullet grazing her left side.

She would not remember hitting the water or someone calling her name or an Army doctor-sized splash. 

She _would_ remember thinking as she hurtled toward the murky river, cold wind brushing her face:

_Falling is a lot like flying._

_“Your lord and king, Great Xerxes has gathered you naval commanders to ask for your advice. Should we advance on the Greeks?”_

_Artemisia waited for a lull in the men’s grunting and clamoring. Then, she spoke._

_“Do not rush into a naval encounter, but instead let us keep our ships close to the shore. Victory will be ours. The Greeks can't hold out against us for very long. Without stored food on this island, they will leave for their homelands. Our army will march against the Peloponnese , and they who have come from there will not stay to defend Athens. A hurried engagement will lead to a hurried defeat and weakened land-forces as well. Our allies, such as the Egyptians and the Cyprians, are untrustworthy and useless.”_

_When Mardonios relayed all that was said to the King, he said, “How wise is this Artemisia, queen of Halicarnassus. Long have I esteemed her opinion in these matters and so I do now. She is more than worthy of the five ships that she commands. But though wise and prudent, she is only one voice among many. Prepare for battle. I will watch the fighting myself to ensure my men act bravely.”_

 

_The Greeks were upon her. They would not give up, Artemisia knew. She knew how intolerable the idea of a female commander was to them, knew of the ten thousand drachmas offered for her capture._

_Persian ships were ahead, blocking her escape._

_“Take down the Persian colors! And attack the Calyndian vessel! If we cannot outrun the Athenians, then we must outsmart them.”_

_“But the Calyndians are allies!”_

_“DO AS I SAY! Or face the consequences!” Artemisia roared._

_The Calyndian vessel sank, and the Athenians gave up their pursuit—believing Artemisia’s ship to be a Greek one or a deserter from the Persian side._

_The sailors celebrated their victory. From the foot of Mount Egaleo, King Xerxes declared, “O Zeus, surely you have formed women out of man's materials, and men out of woman's."_

_Artemisia’s heart swelled with pride when King Xerxes later presented her with a full suit of armor. At the ceremony, she looked among the crowd for Dardanus._

_The entire world thought she was in love with Dardanus, and she did nothing to dissuade the rumors. She did stop and stare. She did alter her path to cross his. The world was blind. They could not see that the pulse at her throat only quickened when Dardanus was accompanied by his lovely wife, she of the auburn hair and full bosom and round hips. Of the warm smile and the melodic laugh._

_Emboldened by triumph, Artemisia sought out the object of her affection, having decided to lay a piece of her prized armor at her feet. She discovered the woman bathing at the river. She hid and watched and trembled as her lady—for that’s how she thought of her in her warrior’s heart—cleansed and rinsed her naked form and copper-coloured hair._

_Unable to restrain her desire, Artemisia burst upon her lady as she rose from the water. The woman gave a high-pitched cry and shrank back in fear and disgust. Artemisia fled, leaving her armor behind._

 

_Leucas! Leucas ! Leucas!_

_The voice in her head was urging Artemisia the top of the rock of Leucas. Blind with shame and sorrow, she climbed. When she reached the pinnacle, she jumped._

_Her final thought, as the warm wind brushed her face and her body hurtled toward the bright blue sea, was:_

_Falling is a lot like flying._

 

“Ma’am.”

Mycroft startled awake.

“Yes?” She opened her eyes. _Something is wrong._

“We’re landing,” said Anthea.

“And?” _He’s worried._

“There’s news from Scotland Yard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully recognize that Mycroft's dream is a piece that would be much better done in the hands of someone like [fiorinda_chancellor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorinda_chancellor). It is an idea that I've had rolling around in my head since I saw a few minutes of an interview with actress Eva Green about [300: Rise of an Empire](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/300:_Rise_of_an_Empire). In that film, she plays [Artemisia I of Caria](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemisia_I_of_Caria). Green is an actress that inspires me--and others, I know--as Fem!lock. I didn't actually watch the film, mainly because one reviewer said in the sex scene she looked like a constipated hippopotamus (that's not an image I ever want to associate with my beloved Fem!lock) but the actual historical story of Artemisia was very interesting. The story, however, didn't seem like a dream that Sherlock would have. Advising a king? Strategy? War? Armor? That's the other Holmes sister.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thank you for doing this.”

“What is the point of having a doctor for a best friend if you can’t get a house call?” joked John as she cleaned Lestrade’s wound.

“It’s just a flesh wound, but…”

John huffed, “The only people who say ‘it’s just a flesh wound’ are fictional characters who have never actually _had_ a flesh wound. _This_ , this hurts. And frankly, I bet the other side—the one without the bullet—hurts even worse.”

Lestrade sighed.

“You know that you are more than welcome to recuperate at Baker Street.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I can barely tolerate Sherlock at crime scenes. I would rather take a bullet in the other side than live with her.”

_Beep!_

“What’s she saying now?” asked John.

Lestrade looked at John’s mobile. “She says she’s going to blow up the flat if you don’t return her text.”

John hummed and continued, applying the wound treatment. “After something happens, she gets a little…”

“Overprotective?” offered Lestrade.

“That’s a very nice word. I was going to say ‘feral.’”

Lestrade laughed and then winced.

“Oof! Why does it still hurt? It’s been a few days.”

“Because you aren’t a machine,” said John in her Doctor Voice, gently pressing the edges of the clean dressing. “Now, laundry’s done; soup is in the refrigerator, more frozen for later; brought you the newest _Agatha Poppyseed_ novel, some of those ridiculous magazines you like, and some sappy old movies.” She tore off her plastic gloves.

“Thank you,” said Lestrade, as John helped her slip her shirt back on. “And thank you for diving in after me.”

John gave her a light hug around the shoulders. “You would have done the same for me, without even thinking.”

Lestrade nodded.

_Beep!_

“Now, she’s saying that she’s going to blow up _my_ flat if you don’t return her text.”

John paid no attention. She put on another pair of gloves and cleaned up the mess, saying, “You know I am kind of surprised that Mycroft didn’t offer you a place of convalescence.”

“Oh, she did,” answered Lestrade coldly.

“And?”

“She said that she had ownership of, and I quote, ‘a very spacious residence’. And that she would make available to me a ground floor room…with a private bath…and a separate, _rear-facing_ entrance….”

“Idiot,” muttered John.

“Am I an idiot, John?!” Lestrade’s voice rose, “Because I don’t want to be ensconced below the stairs—where I belong—with Cook, and her Driver, and bloody Anthea—and me, her fucking Whore, in the servants’ quarters! To be summoned like a harem girl! Go around the back! God Forbid, anyone _see_ me with her! Am I an idiot, John? Please tell me!”

“Not you, her. But—by the way—I would bet my entire army pension that Anthea doesn’t live anywhere near Mycroft.”

“Not the point.”

“True. So, what did you say when she offered? Did you tell her what it sounded like?”

“I said,’No! Don’t touch me! Go away!’” hissed Lestarde angrily.

“With _that_ face?”

“What? It’s my face!”

“Your very-angry-let’s-go-arrest-the-pedophile face. Listen, she’s worried about you…”

“Can’t be that worried. I haven’t heard from her since. And I haven’t left the flat since I was discharged from hospital, so I guess she can’t watch me on her sneaky squirrel cameras, can she? Too bad!”

John sighed and rolled her eyes.

_Beep!_

“Oh!” said Lestrade. She turned the mobile toward John and showed her the image of long, elegant fingers holding a pack of cigarettes.

“Shit! I have to go. Please take care of yourself. Call me if you need anything, alright? And this thing with Mycroft? It’ll work itself out, somehow. Don’t get up. Just rest. Take the painkillers, alright? Don’t be a tough guy.”

"Alright, alright."

 

Ilsa had just gotten on the airplane in Casablanca when Lestrade’s mobile rang.

“Lestrade,” she answered.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Ms. Holmes.”

“I…wished to inquire as to your well-being.”

Lestrade looked at the clock. “It’s three in the bloody morning. I am sleeping.”

“Your voice pattern, tone, and quality indicate that you were not sleeping….”

“If you know so much, then why the hell do you need to call me and ask? Oh! That’s right! Because your little cameras aren’t x-ray and they can’t see into my bloody flat, can they?” Lestrade growled, “Listen, I’m going to do you a huge favour, so peel your Big Brother eyes. _Jesus Christ!_ ” she hissed as she pushed herself up from the sofa. She wore a thin, loose nightgown and cotton dressing gown.

“Please do not exert yourself…”

“YOU DO NOT GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” she roared through clenched teeth as she made her way, bare-footed, to the door. “I’m gonna make it supereasy for you! Here I am!”

She flung open the door and stepped into the hallway. She held her arms out and turned around.

_Whunk!_

The door slammed closed. And locked.

“Oh! _Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!_ Argh!” She kicked the door. “ _ARGH!_ ” She crumpled in pain and dropped the mobile.

_Lift doors._

_Anthea._

_Nothing._

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Lestrade awoke, she had the notion that she was in a warm, soft, chocolate nest. The canopied bed was of a dark brown wood; it was large and comfortable. The duvet was also dark brown. She was in the same nightclothes as earlier. Morning was breaking through the window. By the time that she rolled to her side and pushed herself up with her arms, she spotted Mycroft, pacing in front of the bed.

“Detective Inspector.”

“Ms. Holmes. You drugged me. And kidnapped me,” snarled Lestrade.

“Technically Anthea drugged you. But yes, on my orders. _I_ kidnapped you.”

“I could have you both arrested!”

“I’d love to see you try!”

“I could have…” she looked down her nightgown to the wound dressing.

“I had you examined. The stitches are fine.”

“What _doctor_ …? Oh, shit, of course. John.”’

Mycroft said nothing.

“How long are you going to keep me captive? In your dungeon?!”

“ _UNTIL I CAN BLOODY WELL THINK AGAIN!_ ”

Mycroft took a round object from the bookcase and threw it against the far wall. It fell to the floor with a crack.

“You were in pain. Distress. I _heard_ you. Second-hand knowledge of your pain, your distress, is excruciating. First-hand is _intolerable!_ ” she thundered.

She turned to fully face Lestrade, and Lestrade was stunned.

Sallow skin contrasted a shadowy expression. Fatigue and anxiety were etched on her visage, dark circles and pinched lines.

She looked _wrecked_. And smelled like tobacco.

“Come here,” said Lestrade.

And the miracle—of this entire tale—was that she came. Lestrade moved gingerly to the side edge of the bed, and Mycroft met her there.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay,” chanted Lestrade as she wrapped her arms and legs around Mycroft.

She pushed Mycroft’s hair away from her face and kissed her softly. “I’m okay, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s voice broke, “Gregory,” and she held Lestrade in a delicate embrace. She nuzzled up and down Lestrade’s neck. They held each other close for a long, sweet, lingering kiss.

“Shower, and come watch over me while I rest,” said Lestrade; though truthfully, Mycroft looked far more tired than she herself felt.

Mycroft nodded, with a half-smile.

Mycroft returned in navy blue, long-sleeved pyjamas. Her short dark hair was damp. She looked down at the floor where—with a small amount of pain and awkward shifting—Lestrade had managed to shuck her dressing gown, nightgown, and knickers. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You’re supposed to be _convalescing_.”

Lestrade held the duvet and sheet up to her neck.

“So you don’t want to share this nice, warm chocolate nest with me?”

Mycroft growled and slipped under the bedding.

“Oh!” sighed Mycroft when she gently curled around Lestrade.

“I’m okay,” whispered Lestrade.

Within moments, Mycroft was asleep.

 

 

When Mycroft opened her eyes again, morning traffic outside had come and gone. Lestrade was stroking her hair.

“This isn’t a dungeon at all,” Lestrade said.

“No. We’re on the top floor.”

Lestrade smiled, “I mean, this room, it’s very…handsome. Elegant, but…umm…livable, if that makes sense.” Mycroft kissed along her jawline, then she nuzzled at Lestrade’s s bare shoulder. Lestrade mewled contentedly.

“Here and the study are where I spend the lion’s share of my time.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me…umm… _below the stairs_?” Lestrade’s tone went hollow at the last phrase.

Mycroft sat up to look at her. She raised one eyebrow.  Lestrade looked at her then looked away. She fiddled with the hem of the sheet.

Mycroft whispered, “Stupid, stupid, stupid. A _supreme_ miscalculation. And it speaks to the state of my mind—so consumed with anxiety—that I did not and have not realized my error until now. Gregory, the offer was not meant as an insult. I wanted to respect your independence, give you some privacy. I did not know if you would be able to manage the stairs. And there are quite a lot here. But most of all, I did not want to presume that—in your current physical state—you would wish any kind of… _attention_.”

Lestrade looked at her. The sincerity and concern in Mycroft’s expression swept the last of her ire away.

“I’m sorry that I got angry and offended and pushed you away instead of just saying what was wrong. And I so desperately want your… _attention_.” She smiled and pulled down the duvet.

A full, wide smile crossed Mycroft’s face. “You shall have it.” Bearing all her weight on her forearms, Mycroft kissed down Lestrade’s neck. She bathed each shoulder with tender lips and grazes of her teeth. Lestrade hummed. Mycroft kissed Lestrade’s breasts and felt the heavy swell of them against her cheek. Lestrade arched then gave a sharp yelp of pain.

“Gregory!”

“I know, I know. I want to _move_.”

“No _moving_.” Mycroft kissed very gently down the center of Lestrade’s torso. When she reached her mons, Mycroft looked up at her. She raised one eyebrow. Lestrade nodded. With a one-handed vise grip, Mycroft held her hips down; with the other hand, she opened her. When the wave of wet heat hit her, Lestrade bucked minutely.

“ _Mycroft!_ ”

Mycroft spread her legs very carefully. “You have no idea how much I have wanted to hear that. To feel and taste you. It’s driven me mad.”

“ _Please_ , Mycroft.”

Mycroft ruthlessly sucked and licked and teased. She probed and tasted, and Lestrade made little wanton noises and squirmed and called her name and stroked the back of her head. She brought Lestrade to the edge of climax and then stopped. She climbed up Lestrade’s body, hovering over her carefully.

Lestrade panted. She held Mycroft’s face in her hands and kissed her, hungrily licking ever trace of herself from Mycroft’s mouth.

“There is something I’ve _acquired_ , something through research that I think my serve our mutual pleasure…but,” she frowned at the mottled and bandaged canvas of Lestrade’s torso, “perhaps for later in your convalescence…”

“You did… _research_?” teased Lestrade in a low voice. She continued, enamoured of Mycroft’s blush, “On our _mutual pleasure_?” Lestrade shuddered at the thought of Mycroft’s supercomputer of a brain pointed toward their shared gratification. “Of course, I want to try it.”

Mycroft slipped off the bed. She returned naked from the waist down with a flesh-coloured, L-shaped dildo and lubricant. Lestrade watched as she prepared the dildo and inserted one end in herself, the she hovered over Lestrade.

“Oh!” said Lestrade.

“Do you…? I mean…have you…?” asked Mycroft.

“Umm…like that, no…but I have one, of course, just a regular…umm…I mean I’m not usually the one on…I mean, I’m almost always…oh shit… _Just fuck me, Mycroft_.” Lestrade laughed, falling back, opening her legs.

“Gladly,” chuckled Mycroft. She lined the dildo up at Lestrade’s entrance and pushed into her, bracing herself on her arms.

“Oh, oh, OH!” cried Lestrade. Mycroft watched her expression. When the dildo was settled inside Lestrade, she stopped.

“Ye-e-e-s!” said Lestrade shakily, smiling. Mycroft started to push in and out slowly. Lestrade groaned and looked down between them.

“It’s in you…,” she said.

“Yes.”

“…and in me…”

“Yes.”

“…fucking me… _More_ , Mycroft!”

“Yes. And me too, a little bit.”

“Oh, God, yes, yes, yes, you are a proper genius!” cried Lestrade as Mycroft began to piston her hips faster.

“I _am_ the smartest Holmes sister. It’s canon,” chuckled Mycroft as she bent to kiss Lestrade’s lips. “Do you feel… _full?…taken?_ ”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Lestrade held her close and whispered, “I love this. I love the way it feels. I love you. Oh, shit!”

Mycroft just smiled, “Confessions made under duress aren’t admissible, Detective Inspector. I shan’t hold you to anything you said in the heat of moment.”

Lestrade laughed, “Of course, I meant it. It’s just way too early to be saying that kind of thing out loud… _Stupid_.”

Mycroft stopped.

She pulled out of Lestrade quickly.

Lestrade opened her eyes and looked up with concern. She reached up her hand and brushed Mycroft’s cheek.

“I mean it, Mycroft. I love you. It’s ridiculously soon to be saying so, but you’re different from everyone I’ve ever met…and when I’m with you…If it makes you uncomfortable, just delete it.” Mycroft put her hand over Lestrade’s mouth, silencing her rambling.

They locked eyes.

Then, Mycroft released her, sat back and very, very slowly…

…unbuttoned her pyjama top.

She slipped it off, and Lestrade gasped.

_“Oh my God!”_

Mycroft froze.

Then, she was sure she felt warm wind on her face and a Mediterranean blue sea below her.

She reached for her shirt.

_“Sherlock is such a little shit!”_

Mycroft stopped. And stared.

_“Why does she call you fat?! There isn’t an ounce of fat on you!”_

Lestrade smiled with angry wonder. Mycroft erupted with laughter and collapsed beside her. Lestrade ran her fingers over the muscles in Mycroft’s arms and chest and abdomen.

“Childhood taunts tend to linger,” said Mycroft blithely. Lestrade tried to roll toward her and winced.

“Don’t _move_ ,” cautioned Mycroft, leaning to kiss her.

“Compared to you, I’m positively…” Lestrade gestured toward her belly and hips and thighs.

“Stop thinking,” growled Mycroft. “I _adore_ you. I would devour you without provocation.”

Lestrade looked toward the door.

“You carried me, up those stairs.”

“It isn’t a task I would delegate. _To anyone_.”

“ _Mycroft_ ,” sighed Lestrade. “ _Fuck me, now_.”

Mycroft rose over her.

“ _Hello, gorgeous_ ,” she crooned into Lestrade’s breasts.

Lestrade opened her legs.

Mycroft applied more lubricant and sank into her.

Lestrade whispered quickly in her ear,

“ _I’m not the smartest Holmes sister, but I am not blind either, Mycroft. I see the scars. But I rather get back to the fucking. Another day_.”

Mycroft relaxed and kissed her shoulder. She growled in reply, “ _Sherlock is a little shit. You are so_ not _an idiot_.”

They laughed. And fucked until they both came.

 

 

Later, they were sprawled in the bed. Mycroft was idly toying with Lestrade’s nipple and purring as Lestrade scratched her head. Lestrade squinted at the wall across the room.

“Did you… _crack_ …a Fabergé egg?”

“People think it was lost anyway,” said Mycroft, tracing the areole with her tongue. Lestrade rolled her eyes and looked at the ceiling. She changed the subject.

“When I’m off of desk duty, I want to wear that thing out,” she indicated the dildo at the foot of the bed. “In the back of your Evil Black car…Or someplace outside, beneath the stars…” she flirted.

Mycroft smiled and licked the nipple. “On my desk.”

“On mine.”

They looked at each other and said in unison,

“On Sherlock’s.”

“Next time that little shit steals my badge, we’re breaking into Baker Street and going like rabbits right on it. Too bad John will be the one to clean it up.”

Mycroft laughed.

“I want to be on top, riding you,” whined Lestrade, cupping her breast and offering it to Mycroft.

“In my lap, deep inside you,” groaned Mycroft, taking the nipple in her mouth and sucking hard.

“On all fours, taking me from behind. Oh God, Mycroft! You think we can manage that one right now? If we’re really, really careful.”

“I’m _always_ careful,” said Mycroft wickedly.

Mycroft arranged pillows beside Lestrade and with infinitely slow, gradual movements, eased her on them. She added more until Lestrade was spread with her bottom in the air. Mycroft prepared the dildo and pushed inside her. They both groaned. Mycroft slipped a hand beneath Lestrade.

“Fucking this gorgeous cunt…”

“Yes!” cried Lestrade.

“Playing with your sweet clit…”

“Yes, yes…”

Mycroft studied Lestrade’s face as she brushed her thumb lightly across Lestrade’s arsehole.

“Oh!” Lestrade bit the pillow.

“Don’t hide _anything_ from me,” growled Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Lestrade meekly, wiggling her arse. “Just a little.”

Mycroft’s eyes grew darker.

“Fingering this pretty little hole, just a little.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Come for me!”

And Lestrade did.

 

Sometime later, they were both sweating and panting.

“ _Oh, oh, oh_. Okay. Now I am going to play the ‘convalescence’ card. I’m tired. And sore in ways that have nothing to do with my injuries,” teased Lestrade.

“Rest,” ordered Mycroft.

“Here?”

Mycroft rose over her and shifted her weight to one forearm.

“ _Here_ is where you belong…,” she took Lestrade’s hand in hers and placed it over own her heart, “in my inner sanctum.”

 

“So all’s well that ends well,” said John, putting clothes in the dryer.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “But, you know, she said something, in the heat of the moment, which was interesting.”

 Lestrade turned on the dryer.

“Hmm? Hey, I wasn’t finished filling that…”

“She said she was the smartest Holmes sister,” Lestrade leaned into John’s ear; the loud _thunka-thunka-thunka_ of the dryer drowned her words.

“She is, but don’t let Sherlock hear you say that,” John leaned closer. “Or hear me say that.”

“Smart _est_.”

They looked at each other.

“Mycroft doesn’t misspeak,” said Lestrade.

“No.”

“So that means…”

John slumped against the dryer and gave a look upstairs.

“There’s another one.”

After a moment, John shook her head. “Well, part of being with a Holmes woman is being on a need-to-know basis. They aren’t exactly open books. Can you live with that?”

Lestrade shrugged. “If it matters, they’ll tell us, right?”

“God, I hope so.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because a third Holmes sister is too delicious a trope to pass up! 
> 
> Mycroft and Lestrade are using a [feeldoe](https://www.feeldoe.com/home_page.html).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
